Artists are not those magical and mythological beings, superior and self-absorbed, almost crazy and sometimes martyrs who  present us with film biopics, biographies or anything like that. Now we know that Van Gogh did not cut his ear in an outburst, but in a fight. It was a fortuitous blow, and not even the whole ear, but a tiny piece. Artists are as abnormal as you, as us, as them. It is certain that they have some special characteristics, such as tenacity, insistence, perseverance, sometimes a strange security in themselves, in what they do. The own the assurance that they do what they have to do. This faculty leads them to dedicate themselves to art for a lifetime. A whole life in which most of the time there is no glory, no awards, no recognition. Neither money, nor exhibitions. But even if the artist has to earn a living from hundred other things that most of the time have nothing to do with art, they will continue to do what they have to do with the same insistence. Even if she gets married, has three children and does any petty job while taking care of the household … she will always keep thinking about what she has to do: her art. It is something that eventually fades if they do it for themselves, as an inevitable part of their destiny or as an obligation that nobody understands.

The system ends up expelling us all, the old and the new, because they will be old and new ones will come, only the myths of history, the great quotes for the auctions, the tragic lives, will always remain, they will appear sporadically in the news … and the prizes, the Grand Prizes, which finally only serve to remind us of all those who never received them.